


A Shark Amongst the Kittens

by howldax



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Kittens, M/M, despite his determination to remain stoic, even Erik, everyone loves kittens, kittens everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 13:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2192853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howldax/pseuds/howldax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles has a lot of cats. He sort of collects them without meaning to, really, and it isn't his fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shark Amongst the Kittens

**Author's Note:**

> I waited a couple of months and neither of my betas got back to me, so I just read it through a few times and corrected any mistakes I found because I got impatient. If you find any please tell me so I can remedy them, and any feedback is hoarded and coveted.

Charles has a lot of cats. He sort of collects them without meaning to, really, and it isn't his fault.

 

He finds the first in his kitchen, pawing at the cupboard with thin, sad paws. “Hello,” he says gently, crouching in the doorway. She turns, eyes widening, and sprints behind the fridge. “No! I won't hurt you,” Charles coaxes, taking a piece of biscuit from the cupboard by the door and holding it out to her whilst making soft _tsk tsk tsk_ noises. After about ten minutes she slinks out, yellow eyes bright and wary. She slinks along the wall and steals the piece of biscuit from his hand, accepting the rest in bits as he feeds it to her. 

 

She's a Russian Blue, he thinks. The blue-gray coat is characteristic of the breed, although her eyes are a bright, intelligent yellow where they should – according to breeder's standards – be a dark green. Charles thinks they make her look exotic and slightly dangerous.

 

It takes a while for her to trust him, but she lurks around Westchester for that time and gratefully accepts the food he puts down for her, and eventually curls up silently on the sofa beside him one night and allows him to cautiously pet her. She purrs, and her fur looks black in the firelight, the occasional blue sheen being brought to her by it like the sleek feathers of a raven.

 

“How do you feel about the name Raven?” he asks her, and she stretches out, tongue curling out as she yawns, then stands and delicately picks her way onto his lap, where she settles down and looks up at him with those beautiful yellow eyes. He takes it as her approval of the name and scritches under her chin. “Hello, Raven. My name is Charles – it's good to meet you.”

 

~

 

The next is Hank, who appears in his lab from a tiny hole in the wall and wreaks havoc by scattering papers, panicking, falling off the table and dragging off some expensive equipment by hooking his claws in some wires as he falls. Charles hears the crash and runs down to the lab, only to find that there's a yowling furball of terror thrashing around in his wiring. He doesn't even use the lab anymore, so it's no big deal, but he finds himself worried about the creature so he grabs it until it stops struggling, ignoring the scratches it makes up his arms and even on his jaw. It only takes a few minutes for the kitten to realise that somebody is holding it and it goes limp immediately, allowing itself to be pulled from the wires without any damage to it (although the wires are beyond saving).

 

“Hello,” Charles says, holding it under its front legs in front of his face to look into its dark, strikingly blue eyes. He notes with some amusement that it has distinctive black markings around its eyes that look remarkably like spectacles. “A little scientist, eh?”

 

The cat meows apologetically. Charles cradles it in one arm and after a quick inspection determines that it is in fact a he, stroking up his spine until he purrs. Looks like he's a torbie of some kind – a tabby tortoiseshell – with leg stripes that are prominent in black on an otherwise grey-layered coat.

 

“You look like a Hank,” he says. “I'll have to check you for a microchip, I suppose, but if nothing comes up is Hank acceptable?” Hank nuzzles shyly into Charles' shirt and meows against his chest, a puff of warm air through the fabric.

 

He isn't microchipped, so Hank it is.

 

~

 

“This is getting ridiculous,” Charles says disbelievingly when he opens his door a week later and finds a small chocolate-coloured kitten curled up on his doorstep, fast asleep. His footfalls wake it up as he tries to sneak past to go to the office, and it untucks its head from under its tail, revealing a black patch on the top of its head in a vague halo shape. It meows hesitantly, as shy as Hank for a moment. Charles crouches in front of it and puts his files to one side to stroke it, scratching it behind the ears until it purrs approvingly and jumps onto his lap, arching its back for more attention.

 

“Aren't you precious,” Charles coos automatically, gazing into big brown eyes. “A veritable little angel.”

 

The kitten continues purring as he places it on top of his files and picks them back up; he'll make a trip to a vet on his way to the office. After all, he runs the company – he can't get in _that_ much trouble for being late. He picks up a box from inside the house and puts all three kittens inside to get acquainted; Raven and the new kitten immediately get along like a house on fire, but Hank seems a little intimidated.

 

She – as the kitten turns out to be – is very cooperative with the vet, only once clawing her when the vaccination needle comes out, which is fair enough.

 

“What an angel,” the vet says fondly, stroking her. “Shame she's not chipped, I'm sure someone's missing her.”

 

Charles thinks that Angel may be a name that sticks. “I'll put up posters in the area,” he says to the vet, tucking Angel into his coat pocket (the other two are in still in the car). Her head pokes out inquisitively.

 

“Excellent,” says the vet, peeling off her latex gloves. “Have a good day, Mr Xavier.”

 

“And you,” Charles returns, then drives to the office at speeds that are only just legal. Moira is waiting outside with a look of deep, long-suffering patience and barely-suppressed irritation, which lessens slightly when she sees him pull up.

 

“You have to be good, guys,” Charles whispers to the kittens, who are on the passenger seat in the cardboard box (seatbelt stretching across it to keep them safe, of course). He brings them with him to greet Moira, and she raises a sceptical eyebrow at them all. Raven meows loudly in greeting, whereas Hank cowers away a little and Angel just sniffs her suspiciously, head stretching out of the box. Moira strokes her and seems to gain some approval from all three of them.

 

“You want to explain this?” Moira asks as Raven claws her way up Charles' chest to slip into his front pocket, dislodging the pens he keeps there so they rain down on her fellows. They meow at her but are ignored. Charles pets them soothingly, balancing the box on one hand.

 

“I seem to keep accumulating them,” he says. “I didn't want to leave them home alone, they might get lonely, and they wanted to come out with me.” The kittens meow agreeably.  
  
“What are you, the Cat Whisperer?”

 

“Perhaps,” Charles allows. “Anyway, they've promised to behave themselves, so they're coming in with me to drop off these files and for the meeting. Moira, this is Raven, Hank and Angel. Kittens, say hello to Moira. She's the best PA in the whole world.”

 

“Charmed,” Moira tells them, lips twitching into a half-smile.

 

The day passes without incident, except the expected cooing of his employees. Raven and Angel bask in the attention, Angel in particular judging by the smug looks she keeps directing at Charles whenever anyone scratches under her chin. Hank tries to stay out of the way, uncomfortable with the amount of people, and eventually Charles tucks him in the expansive pocket of his tweed jacket, out of sight. Hank starts purring softly in there, content.

 

The meeting is interesting; there's a new employee, a financial advisor called Erik, who is one of the only people not to be intrigued or excited by the kittens, and he doesn't seem to have an allergy like the rest of the no-strokes do. Charles finds himself perplexed. Then again, Erik does seem to be rather solemn, with a strong jawline and flat eyes that are reminiscent of a shark's once he begins talking about how to compete with/bankrupt - “Now now,” Charles says, “We don't want to put anyone out of business!” and Erik looks at him oddly – rival companies. Nevertheless he is rather handsome, if a little threatening, and Raven headbutts Charles' chin midway through the meeting to give him a knowing look.

 

“Oh shush,” he says fondly, interrupting some shareholder, and she meows, yellow eyes thoroughly unimpressed.

 

“Mr Xavier?” someone asks, sounding concerned. “Are you alright?”

 

“Oh yes, just Raven and I sharing a little joke,” Charles says brightly, laughing at Raven's purr. The room of smart-looking, professional businessmen is starting to get tense with confusion, but Charles can't bring himself to care very much. “What were you saying?”

 

The meeting continues, but Charles struggles to focus when he's so aware of a certain sharky gaze directed at him, feeling vulnerable even with Raven wrapping herself around his neck like a living, furry scarf. He risks eye contact with Erik – Mr Lensherr, he should say – and neither of them look away for a while until Charles breaks under the intensity of that scrutiny and whispers conspiratorially to Raven, locking eyes with her instead until he feels quite recovered. When he dares to look up again Erik – drat, Mr Lensherr – is paying close attention to the meeting, and he feels an odd sense of palpable relief mingled with disappointment.

 

When the meeting finishes Charles counts the kittens, making sure he knows where they are – Hank has ventured out of Charles' pocket and is shyly following Raven as she pounces on unguarded files along the table, leaving a trail of torn paper and annoyed muttering in her wake, and Angel is sat in front of Erik with her chin tilted upwards expectantly. The other employees and shareholders leave, but Erik stays, staring at this little furball with a blank, slightly bemused expression. She tilts her head up further and meows insistently. Slowly his hand reaches out and he rubs one finger below her chin, looking surprised when she leans heavily into it.

 

“Scratch a little, with the tip of your finger,” Charles offers, picking up Raven and Hank. Erik startles, pulling his hand back and closing off his expression. Angel hisses, though whether at Erik for stopping or at Charles for interrupting he isn't sure.

 

“No thank you. I don't like cats,” Erik says shortly, standing and leaving in a decidedly stiff manner. Charles watches him retreat, admiring the black turtleneck's excellent job of making Erik look both appetising and foreboding, and the way his tan pants make his legs look remarkably long.

 

Raven meows at him. Charles strokes her absentmindedly, still watching Erik. “Oh shush,” he says.

 

~

 

Charles doesn't have any more meetings for the next few days so stays at home with the kittens. He's hoping for relative peace, which should be possible as Hank is too self-conscious to cause havoc, Angel just wants to be petted - “Maybe I should have called you Queen,” Charles jokes to her, and gets a thoroughly condescending look in return – and Raven only scratches things until he orders them a sprawling, five-tier 'scratching post', which has at least fourteen different places for them to sit and various toys dangling off it. Charles calls it the Cat Castle and Raven claims the top 'turret' for herself, usually curling up inside it so only her gleaming eyes are visible through the entry hole. Hank seems to worship the ground she walks on, and sometimes she even lets him curl up in there with her, where he purrs and shyly licks the side of her face.

 

On the fourth day, instead of peace he wakes up to a knock on the door at five am and has to dislodge the kittens from where they're lying across his arm, neck and stomach to get up and answer. They grumble loudly and Raven swipes at his face, so he apologises and explains, “It might be important.”

 

Raven and Angel go back to sleep, Angel taking the time to smooth down the ruffled fur on her chest before she settles. Hank trots behind Charles with a longing glance back at Raven. Charles pulls on a dressing gown and finger-combs his hair as he walks, feeling presentable by the time they reach the front door. He opens it, Hank peering around his legs, and sees nobody there, only a cardboard box left on his doorstep. He opens it cautiously, prepared to dive out of the way if it's something that'll explode – as many anonymous gifts do when you run one of the biggest companies in America – but all that's in there is a large, slate-grey cat lying on its side. It looks up at him with dark, serene eyes.

 

“Oh, no,” Charles says. “I am _not_ a crazy cat lady. People do not drop off cats at my door at five in the morning.”

 

The cat looks unconvinced by his declaration, instead standing up in its box with a tinkling noise and sniffing Hank, who has braved the outside to greet the newcomer. Wait, tinkling noise?

 

Charles picks up the cat, interrupting the introduction, and sees a grey, scale-patterned collar with a nametag around his neck. DARWIN, the nametag says, but there's no address or number on the back. Charles sighs. “I guess I'll have to make some more posters. Welcome to the family, Darwin.”

 

~

 

Darwin is a calming influence on the others, a bit older and wiser, but he still seems a bit uneasy for a while, like he doesn't connect with the other cats – perhaps because of their youth, Charles thinks to himself. Charles doesn't want any of the kittens to be unhappy, so after a couple of weeks Charles tucks the kittens in his jacket pockets – Hank in the left one, Angel in the right and Raven in the chest pocket – and carries Darwin in his arms, ordering a taxi rather than driving. The cab driver gives him a dirty look, but Charles says he'll pay extra for the cats and so is grudgingly allowed in with them.

 

When they get to the animal shelter Hank shrinks back, hiding himself from the animals he can smell; Angel holds her head high and Raven leaps onto Charles' shoulder for a better view. Darwin looks frightened, and Charles has to reassure him that he's not being left here before he looks around. It must seem quite similar to being dropped off at the manor, with all the cat-scents and new surroundings, and it's a fair enough assumption for the cat to make.

 

The woman at the front desk raises an eyebrow at him when she sees the animals, but allows him to take them into the cat pens with him. He puts them on the floor and leaves them to make friends, wandering along himself mainly to see which cats they get along with. Darwin seems to be gravitating towards a handsome sandy-coloured cat, and Charles checks the notes on his door to see if this one will be viable to join the family.

 

Name: Alex

 

Age: Unknown, approx. 4 yo

 

Breed: Mixed, unknown

 

Temperament: Can be violent (evidence of past abuse)

 

Charles frowns at that last one, looking at the cat in the pen. He and Darwin are touching noses through the wire mesh. Charles crouches down and Alex hisses, back arching and tail sticking straight up.

 

“Hey, it's okay,” Charles says soothingly. Closer up there are cigarette burns visible through the short, sandy fur, faded with time but still there. “I won't hurt you, Alex.” Darwin nudges Charles' hand until he gets stroked, and after a moment Alex subsides. Charles sits on the floor, allowing Darwin to settle in his lap, and eventually all the other kittens come back and flop across him.

 

Charles opens the pen slowly, in order to not startle Alex, and Darwin wanders in and nuzzles along Alex's burn-free side. The kittens follow, Raven playing with one of Alex's toys until she gets hissed at. Charles stands, trying to ignore how Alex flinches and hisses, and goes to look along the other pens.

 

There's a huge, grumpy-looking cat with fur down the sides of his face giving him the appearance of sideburns who reveals frighteningly long claws when Charles says hello and then turns his back with a growl. A sleek grey cat is in the next one along, blue eyes piercing and unsettling. Charles reads his file and decides that 'Riptide' isn't the cat for him, not with _that_ history. The next contains a pure white cat with long, silky fur and almost clear eyes. Charles has always found white cats unnerving, if he's honest. “Sorry,” he says to her, moving on.

 

The final pen contains a small, dark ginger kitten who is another unknown/mixed-breed, approximately 20 weeks old. Friendly, energetic and curious, the notes say, and Charles likes Sean immediately when he meows at a pitch so high it's almost uncomfortable.

 

“You could break glass with that voice,” Charles tells him, and Sean meows again. “You're like a banshee.”

 

In the end he leaves with two more cats than he arrived with, and feels pleased at the gain if a little worried by the fact that he really _is_ starting to become a crazy cat lady.

 

~

 

When he next goes in for a meeting with six kittens Moira says, “For Gods' sake, Charles! You can't keep bringing them in to _work._ ”

 

“I don't see why not,” Charles replies, putting down his files and allowing the four younger kittens to swarm from the specially-made sling he wears across his chest onto the table. Darwin and Alex join them from their perches on Charles' shoulders. Raven bounds over to the company's biggest investor and charms him by flopping onto her back and wriggling until he rubs her stomach, closely followed (as usual) by Hank, who watches with an expression that Charles can only describe as fond. Angel picks her way across the papers on the table to sit by Mr Lensherr, who ignores her until she leaps gracefully into his lap and props her chin on the table.

 

“Mr Xavier, please call back your cat,” Lensherr says, voice tight, and Charles shrugs as Darwin and Alex claim a spot in the middle of the table and lie down on some rather important papers, Alex scratching a man who tries to pull them back.

 

“They do what they want, Mr Lensherr,” he says. “She really does seem to like you.”

 

Sean meows at Moira, who winces.

 

Lensherr takes Angel by the scruff and deposits her back on the table, where she sits and stares at him for the rest of the meeting. When the meeting is over, Lensherr says, “I have something I need to discuss with you about the company finances, Mr Xavier. Do you have time now?”

 

“Why didn't you bring it up at the meeting?” Charles asks, scooping the kittens back into their sling and bending down so Alex can sit on his shoulder. This time Darwin chooses to sit in the sling, acting like a cushion for the squirming kittens. Angel glares at Erik.

 

“It is not something that can be shared with all who were present,” Erik says carefully. Charles raises an eyebrow, scratching Raven behind the ears.

 

“Well, I have something to attend to right now,” When he says 'something' he means 'I'm going out to look at collars for my clowder' but it seems like that might sound a bit too unprofessional and frivolous, and Erik doesn't seem to Charles to be one who appreciates frivolity. Dammit, _Lensherr,_ not Erik. Charles is determined to stay professional, despite his wonderings on what Erik looks like underneath his turtlenecks – he wears them all the time, and they're always either black or grey or, once, dark green. Charles rather liked the green one, but in the end didn't have the balls to comment and have to suffer a shark-gaze, which is what Erik gives anyone who compliments him on anything. Charles tries not to find that endearing and focus on how terrifying being on the receiving end of it is. “But come to the mansion later and I'll be free. That alright?”

 

Er- Lensherr looks put out but agrees to swing by. Charles watches him leave, then gathers his files and goes shopping.

 

~

 

Raven refuses to wear a collar, squirming out of every one he tries out within seconds. “Please, Raven,” Charles says desperately as he clips on a red collar, which contrasts nicely with her blue-ish fur.

 

She gives him a look that he imagines is saying, _I am microchipped. I don't need a collar and you know it._

 

“But you look lovely,” Charles tries as she dumps the collar on the floor, shaking her head as if to remove the memory of wearing it from her brain.

 

_No!_ her next look says emphatically, and he gives up. There's no point in spending money on something that will be destroyed or lost ten minutes after he gets it.

 

Angel on the other hand is ecstatic about it, running up and down the aisle and pulling collars she likes the look of off the shelf. Her type seems to be sparkly, especially ones encrusted with false diamonds. One is dark purple with glitter of the same colour, studded with both fake diamonds  _and_ fake rubies. She likes that one the best, and rejects all the others Charles picks out until he relents and buys the gaudy thing. He has to admit that it does rather suit her. 

 

Hank allows Charles to try many collars on him, not complaining once. Charles eventually settles on a dark blue collar, tastefully simple but still inappropriately expensive, just as he likes. Hank looks quite proud of the soft leather band and tries to show it off to Raven, who is politely interested but obviously doesn't care, which sends Hank off into the cardboard box with his ears and tail low in disappointment. Charles prods Raven until she snaps irritably at his fingers.

 

“You should be nicer to that poor boy,” he tells her sternly. “He adores you. I'm not saying you have to shag him or anything, but at least be friendly. It's only decent.”

 

Raven slinks into the box and licks Hank once on the top of his head, settling down beside him and resting her chin on her front paws, closing her eyes. Hank blinks then copies her pose, and they're both asleep in moments.

 

Alex hisses at every collar except a red one with a red-pink border and a vaguely smoky pattern, so Charles buys that one for him. Sean just seems uninterested in the whole process, playing with Alex (which is basically just pouncing on Alex's tail until Alex cuffs him around the head) while Charles picks out a band similar to Hank's but with a broad stripe of yellow running around the middle.

 

Charles has them all custom tags made, with their names on one side and his postcode and phone number in tiny letters on the other. Darwin already has a collar and tag, so Charles just has his details engraved on the back of the existing tag. Most of the cats have simple oval tags, except Angel and Darwin; Angel prods at the heart shaped tag on the machine's screen and Charles can't say no, and Darwin's is already a rounded rectangle.

 

When Charles arrives home, exhausted and with arms full of lightly tinkling, stupidly energetic kittens, he finds Erik stood on his doorway in a different turtleneck from earlier – the dark green one, wonderful! – and carrying a small briefcase.

 

“I hope you haven't been waiting long!” Charles says as he unlocks the door, kittens already spilling out of the cardboard box.

 

“Not too long,” Erik says diplomatically. “May I come in, Mr Xavier?”

 

“Please call me Charles – yes, come on in. Tea? Coffee? Brandy, scotch, anything of that sort? I've quite the pretentious collection. Alex, get off Mr Lensherr's shoe!” Alex does so, dashing around the corner and out of sight. “Please excuse him, they all get these funny five minutes every now and again where they run absolutely everywhere for no reason.”

 

“Call me Erik,” says Erik. “I wouldn't say no to a brandy.”

 

Charles walks ahead into the drawing room, not seeing the way Erik's eyes widen at the Cat Castle as he pours them both some brandy. He turns and hands one over, smiling broadly.

 

“Thank you,” Erik says, avoiding the swarming kittens with admirable grace, especially for a man of his height. He sips the brandy and seems approving. The kittens start meowing, occasionally interspersed with Darwin's deeper meow and a hint of a growl from Alex.

 

“Calm down,” Charles says as he turns to face them, then stopping and just staring for a moment. If he's not mistaken, which he isn't, there's one more feline than there should be in that corner. Raven, Hank, Darwin, Alex, Angel, Sean... and another one. “Who are you?” he asks, momentarily forgetting Erik. “How – how did you get in?”

 

The kitten meows and pads cautiously over, leaping occasionally from place to place to swerve around the others with incredible agility until he is at Charles' feet. “Meow,” he says.

 

“Hello,” Charles replies. The kitten meows again. Charles thinks he is a German Rex, with a short dark coat and slightly curling whiskers. They're meant to be a very friendly breed.

 

“Not one of yours?” Erik asks wryly, and Charles spins around, startling the newcomer.

 

“Ah, I'm afraid not.” Charles bends and scoops the kitten up, putting his brandy down on the table and examining it – him. A quick Google on his phone reveals that yes, he likely is a German Rex, and then that Charles does not really like the top ten German names this year. He widens the search to top twenty with an apologetic smile at Erik, who sips his brandy, and discovers the name Kurt.

 

“Kurt,” he says aloud. The kitten looks up at him. “Kurt?”

 

Kurt meows.

 

“Excellent!”

 

“You shouldn't touch it until you have it examined by a professional – it could be carrying something,” Erik says disgustedly. “I have something important to discuss with you, so if you could put that thing in a room somewhere to deal with later and-”

 

“Erik! I cannot put him 'in a room somewhere' and just leave him for later!” Charles clutches Kurt to his chest, looking wounded. “I've got to make sure he is healthy and doesn't require immediate medical attention. My vet is only ten minutes away – can you wait for that long?”

 

Erik looks like he wants to say some very choice words, but instead he just says, “Of course,” through gritted teeth.

 

“Everyone, we're going out!” Charles calls, and the cats all trot into the room, recognising the tone of voice. They climb into the huge carrier Charles bought a few days ago but hasn't yet used – the cats are all more comfortable with the cardboard box or the sling – and wait. Raven, of course, jumps from the Castle into the sling across his chest instead, Hank sitting patiently at Charles' feet until he is lifted in alongside her.

 

“You're taking them all?” Erik asks incredulously.

 

“They don't like being left at home,” Charles says, picking up Angel where she is sitting on the Castle, head turned away as she licks her back. She allows herself to be placed in the sling but jumps out onto Erik's shoulder when Charles walks by him.

 

Erik jumps. “Mr Xavier!”

 

“Call me Charles. Looks like you're coming along – what Angel wants, Angel gets.”

 

Erik tries to pry her from his shoulder but just winces as she digs her claws in. “Fine.”

 

Charles calls the same cab company as before, asking for the same cabbie. He pays extra again, and it will probably only just cover the cost of cleaning all the cat fur off the seats after the kittens all leave the carrier and clamber everywhere, much to Erik's apparent unease.

 

“Didn't you have less last time?” The cabbie asks.

 

“Four has become seven,” Charles admits cheerfully, scratching Kurt under the chin until he purrs and drools endearingly.

 

“Well, better than having kids, eh?” says the cabbie, grinning at Erik in the mirror. Erik shark-smiles back until he looks away. Charles elbows him in the ribs, ignoring how Erik startles at the familiarity of it.

 

“Just as much work, it's seeming,” he jokes as Kurt leans too much on his hand and falls off his lap, unable to lean at such an extreme angle. “Bugger!”

 

Kurt seems unaffected, letting Charles scoop him back up without stopping purring. Erik looks vaguely disgusted by the drool-bubbles forming on Kurt's chin; Charles just wipes Kurt's muzzle with a handkerchief and taps him on the nose.

 

The journey is short, as promised, and the kittens all climb back into their respective carriers/onto their respective perches as the car stops, with the exception of Alex and Darwin, who jump out of the taxi and walk in front of Charles and Erik with an air of sophistication. Charles knows that it's an act, having witnessed Alex jumping on Darwin the other day in a fit of kittenishness and startling him so much he shot across the room and smacked head-first into a wall. Charles had laughed for what seemed like hours.

 

The vet laughs at him when he introduces the new kitten and calls him a “cat collector”. Charles finally reads her nametag, finds out her name is Emily, and tells her he is nothing of the sort thank you VERY much. Erik waits outside with the others, seeming very disgruntled by the whole situation.

 

“Boyfriend not as fond of them as you?” Emily asks playfully as she listens to Kurt's heartbeat.

 

“Erik isn't my boyfriend,” Charles clarifies quickly. “He's a colleague. Wanted to talk to me about something but has ended up being dragged along to this. Though yes, he really doesn't like cats.”

 

“I'm sure you can convert him,” Emily says. “Sorry for assuming.”

 

“No problem,” Charles replies honestly. “Everything alright with him?”

 

“Well, so far yes,” Emily says, then frowns when she handles Kurt's paws.

 

“What's wrong?” Charles asks, worry curling inside his chest.

 

“He appears to have some kind of syndactyl deformity on this paw,” Emily says, staring at it with deep fascination. She checks his other limbs and looks on the brink of joy as she adds, “On all of them in fact! Fused toes, causing each foot to have three toes rather than five on his front paws and four on his back ones – this is incredibly rare!”

 

“Is it genetic?” Charles asks, sharing her excitement a little now.

 

“It's highly likely that it is,” Emily says, and Charles feels a burst of pride – one of his cats has a rare genetic condition! “Usually developmental deformities only occur on one or two limbs, not all four. This is so unusual!”

 

Charles pushes aside his glee to ask, “Will it cause him any issues? Does he need surgery or anything? I can't believe I didn't notice this in the car!” The glee resurfaces despite his best intentions.

 

“He seems to have adapted to walking with them quite well; I'd guess that he's about 9 or so months old, and the best time to operate is at around six months so it might not be beneficial or as effective to operate now.” Emily continues examining Kurt's paws, Charles leaning in to watch. “Obviously, if it becomes a problem then bring him in, but apart from that it's a clean bill of health. I've given him all the necessary shots; could I take some photos of the syndactyl limbs to send to a couple of old colleagues?”

 

“Of course,” Charles says, still buzzing with the revelation that one of his cats has a _genetic anomaly_ , this is so _exciting_.

 

When Charles emerges from the room, practically bouncing with excitement, Kurt nuzzling his face from his perch on Charles' shoulder, Erik is hunched grumpily in a chair with the kittens covering him like some kind of weird, living, furry suit. “Everything fine?” he asks, sounding defeated. He's almost drowned out by the cries of the kittens, who all perk up and leap off Erik with terrifying synchronicity. The few other people in the waiting room look alarmed, but quite frankly Charles doesn't care.

 

“Everything is wonderful!” Charles says enthusiastically. Erik looks taken aback. “Kurt has a rare and rather groovy genetic mutation!”

 

“Why is that wonderful?” Erik asks cautiously.

 

“Oh, Erik!” Charles launches into an explanation of why he's so excited, ignoring how Erik looks even more taken aback and a little amused by his use of the word “groovy” and his first name. They get the same cab, paying him for the time he's waited, and Charles continues talking throughout the journey with barely a pause for breath.

 

“So, basically,” Erik says as he pays the cabbie, interrupting Charles, “You have a strong interest in genetic mutation and a PhD in the subject?”

 

“Well, yes,” Charles says, deflating slightly. Raven purrs with amusement against his Adam's apple, curled around his throat with her claws dug into his collarbone.

 

“Can we talk about the matter I have been trying to bring to your attention, now?”

 

“Of course. I'll feed Kurt and then I'm all yours,” Charles says, ignoring the acerbic note to Erik's tone. “Grumpy, isn't he?” he whispers conspiratorially to Kurt once they're in the kitchen as he gets down a two-sectioned bowl and puts it on the floor next to the other six. He pours in some food and fresh water and slips Kurt a treat from the stash in his pocket as he goes back to the living room, where Erik waits with Angel draped around his neck. He doesn't look happy with the situation, but his sullen glare lacks much vehemence. Charles thinks that Angel might be softening him.

 

“What was it you wanted to discuss?”

 

“You know Sebastian Shaw?”

 

“Um, yes, he works in Accounting, doesn't he?”

 

“He's your CFO,” Erik says, exasperation colouring his voice.

 

“Oh. What's the issue? We've never had any problems with him before.”

 

“Well, I was looking through the accounts and I'm almost convinced he's been embezzling funds to an offshore account. If you look here,” Erik takes out a piece of paper from his briefcase, “There's an extra $10,000 dollars going out to this account every month. I checked the account details and it definitely belongs to him, but the money is labelled as 'company expenses'. It's not much per month, but I traced it back and he's been taking money from the company the whole time he's been CFO, and it adds up to $2,760,000 in total. He covers it up very well, which explains why it hasn't been picked up on.”

 

“I can't believe it,” Charles says numbly, stroking Raven automatically when she jumps up into his lap. “Shaw's been the CFO for almost 23 years. I can't believe he's been using us like this for that whole time. Using _my company_ like that!” He stands, displacing Raven; she meows in displeasure as she lands on Hank where he's sat at Charles' feet. “We are taking this evidence to the police right away!”

 

He and Erik end up staying at the police station until well past midnight, the kittens sleeping through the interviews. Charles sleeps in the cab on the way home, waking up with his face half-smushed against Erik's shoulder. “S'rry,” he mumbles, yawning and grinning blearily down at Angel where she is curled up in Erik's lap.

 

“No problem,” Erik replies softly, shark-smile gone and replaced by a smile that's less sharp, almost gentle.

 

“Do you live close to here?” Charles asks, stretching.

 

“No,” Erik says. “It's quite a drive.”

 

“It's too late for you to be going on a long drive, you must be exhausted. Moira tells me you get into the office at seven in the morning every weekday.”

 

“Does she now,” Erik says, climbing out of the cab and offering Charles a large, warm hand. “I didn't know you talked about me in such detail.”

 

Charles lets Erik help him out of the cab, the kittens all sleeping in the sling except for Sean, who's in Erik's left coat pocket, and Angel, who is gently clasped in Erik's other hand. He ignores the blush rising in his cheeks and pretends he didn't hear Erik's comment.“You should stay over. In the guest room,” he adds hastily. “Save yourself the trip, you know?”

 

“Thanks,” Erik says, scooping up Kurt from where he's still in the cab. Charles blames the fact that he didn't notice one was missing on his exhaustion. Seeing Erik with three of his cats willingly on his person creates a warm, slightly possessive feeling in his chest, so he looks away before he does something stupid like kissing him.

 

“Here's your room for the night,” Charles says about ten minutes later, showing Erik one of the spare rooms. “I'm just next door if you need anything, and there should be a toothbrush in the cupboard above the sink in the en-suite. Feel free to use the shower, and in the morning follow the meows to the kitchen and help yourself.”

 

“Thank you, Charles,” Erik says, stepping into the room. “Goodnight.”

 

“Night,” Charles says, going to his own room. He barely changes into his pyjamas before passing out on the bed, surrounded by Kurt, Hank, Alex, Darwin and Sean, who has sneaked out of Erik's pocket to sleep on Charles' bed. He assumes that Angel and Raven are with Erik, and tried to ignore the feeling of betrayal it causes. He's asleep before he can really feel sad about it anyway.

 

~

 

Charles isn't one for waking before ten when he doesn't have a meeting to go to, usually because he's been out drinking most of the night – although that's been happening infrequently since the kittens started appearing, as they don't like bars or being alone at home for long periods of time – so he gets up at quarter to eleven when Sean meows in his face until he feels like his eardrums are going to burst. He wanders into the kitchen, pours food into the seven bowls on the floor and watches the kittens eat with the kind of fond, protective sensation that he guesses lots of people have for their children.

 

“God, I'm a crazy cat lady,” he says aloud in horror.

 

“Have you only just noticed?” comes Erik's voice from behind him, and Charles whirls around so fast he nearly slips on the polished kitchen floor.

 

“You're still here!” Charles says, and it's almost a question.

 

“I decided to take the day off today, seeing as I had a rather late night. Thank you for letting me stay over, by the way – the bed was very comfortable, and Raven and Angel were very easygoing bedmates.”

 

“Yes, those traitors,” Charles says. Raven twitches her tail but doesn't stop eating. Angel has already finished and is curled up in Erik's lap where he sits at the dining table with a bowl of cornflakes.

 

“What can I say, I'm very charismatic,” Erik says, eating a spoonful of cornflakes.

 

“I guess they've fallen for the shark-smile,” Charles says, head in a cupboard to try and find the Coco Pops he stashes for those times he craves sugar in the morning. Today is one of those times.

 

“The what?” Erik asks, and Charles curses internally. He shouldn't be around people before he's fully awake.

 

“Uh,” he says, and eats a handful of Coco Pops dry to avoid the question.

 

“Shark smile?”

 

“It's the one you do in meetings, or when someone you disagree with speaks, or-”

 

“I get the idea,” Erik says. “Shark-smile. That's not a good thing.”

 

“It's not necessarily a _bad_ thing,” Charles says. “It's quite intimidating, but also rather... well.”

 

“Also rather what?” Erik asks.

 

Charles takes a rather large mouthful of Coco Pops – this time with milk – and Erik shark-smiles with definite intent. Charles flushes.

 

“Rather what?” Erik asks. Charles eats the remaining cereal faster than he thought possible

 

“Is that the time?” he says, standing. “I have a meeting at half eleven! Stay as long as you like but please make sure the door is locked when you go, thank you!” He leaves, almost jogging from the room. The kittens, excluding Angel who doesn't seem to want to move, follow him out.

 

~

 

As he doesn't actually have a meeting he just leaves the kittens at home (much to their displeasure) and goes to a nearby coffeeshop. After about an hour he assumes that Erik will have gone home and that the mansion is safe once more.

 

“I'm home, everyone,” he announces as he comes through the front door, but none of the kittens come to greet him. Charles takes off his coat, frowning at the lack of noise. He walks through to the living room and can't help but let out a little “awww,” sound at the sight before him.

 

Erik is sitting – well, lying – on the couch, fast asleep and covered with kittens. Raven is lying across his neck, Hank is curled up neatly on his chest, Darwin and Alex are side by side across his abdomen, Sean is half across the couch and half across Erik's shoulder, Angel is stretched across his thighs and Kurt is nowhere to be seen. Charles takes a photo on his phone to show Moira and tiptoes upstairs, where he finds Kurt curled up on his bed. When Charles steps in the room Kurt flinches awake and then seems to realise who it is, tail swishing in greeting.

 

“Hey,” Charles says, sitting down beside him and allowing Kurt to nuzzle his hand. “Why aren't you with the others?”

 

Kurt meows. Charles strokes him once and then calls Moira.

 

~

 

“Thanks for letting me come over,” Charles says to Moira when she opens the door, handing over the bottle of vodka he brought instead of flowers.

 

“Give me gossip,” she replies, wasting no time on pleasantries as she shuts the door behind him and ushers him into her living room, grabbing two glasses as they go through the kitchen. “What are you running away from?”

 

“Moira! Maybe I just wanted to spend some quality time drinking myself into a stupor with you.”

 

Moira hands him a glass half full of vodka and waits until he's drained it before she says, “Tell me everything _now_.”

 

It's only when the entire bottle is gone, mostly in Charles because Moira is sneaky and knows he has to pretty damn drunk to spill, that Charles caves.

 

“It's _Lensherr_ ,” he says, a little slurred. “He doesn't like cats and I was like ooo- _kay_ , weird but whatever, but like, if someone doesn't like cats you shouldn't trust them Moira, you know? Because there is something _very wrong_ with someone who hates cats. But then he came over-”

 

“He came _over?_ ” Moira says.

 

“Yes Moira, shush. Sooo, he came over and I was there with the kittens and I bought them all collars except Raven because she is _stubborn_ and wouldn't wear it and then Hank was sad because-”

 

“Lensherr,” Moira reminds him.

 

“Oh, right, well. So he came over and he was like 'shit goin' down'-”

 

“That doesn't sound entirely accurate.”

 

“-AND then I found Kurt, who has a _super groovy_ mutation that means his toes are-”

 

“Lensherr,” Moira repeats.

 

“Right, yeah, so we took him to the vets-”

 

“Lensherr came too? To the vets?”

 

“Yeah, and he wasn't mad when the kittens climbed on him and then we went back home and he was like 'blah blah Sebastian Shaw is a fraudulent wanker',”

 

“Again, that sounds more like your kind of phrasing,” Moira says.

 

“And so then we went to the police station and we were there for, like, aaaaages. And so we got back in the taxi and I was like 'where do you live?' and turns out he lives kinda far away so,” Charles pauses to hiccup lightly. “So I invited him to stay over, and he was doing this smile that was nice and soft and not sharky, and then in the morning I hadn't had my coffee yet and so I let slip about the shark smile and he wouldn't let it go so I made up a meeting and ran off to that but when I came back he was still there, and he was _asleep under a pile of kittens_ and it was so _cute_ and I think he's starting to like the kittens and how can I not want him when he wears those turtlenecks – god, the green one – and smiles the shark-smile but also the sleepy smile thing he did in the cab and he's smart and gorgeous and please shut me up now thanks.”

 

“I ordered Chinese,” Moira says.

 

When they're full of noodles and a tiny bit more sober Moira says, “I think he likes you too, you know.”

 

“Wha'?” Charles asks, muffled by the crispy shredded beef in his mouth and the shock that's just punched him in the stomach.

 

“He looks at you in meetings, like, all the time. He shark-smiles but he sometimes just looks at you with this fondness in his eyes, and he always brings an extra pen and notepad and leaves it out for you because you always forget to bring one.” Charles had wondered where they kept coming from; they've saved his sorry butt a few times. “And when someone scowls at the kittens he glares at them until they leave them alone, and I know you've seen it a few times because you always do that little conspiratorial grin at him when he does, and he manages to just shark-smile until you look away, but then he always blushes a little.”

 

“Oh my god, I thought he was just being an ass to everyone, and it was hilarious,” Charles says, taken aback.

 

“And by the way, he only lives about fifteen minutes away from the mansion. He could've gone back home easily.”

 

“He _lied,_ ” Charles says, appalled.

 

“Very astute,” Moira says serenely, stabbing into the chow mein with her fork.

 

“Oh my god, maybe he likes me,” Charles says. “Oh my god, I sound like a teenager.”

 

“You should go talk to him,” Moira says. “You can take some of the Chinese with you – god knows I'll never finish even half of it by myself – but you should go.”

 

“Thank you so much, Moira,” Charles says fervently, gathering up takeaway cartons.

 

“It's almost part of my job description,” Moira says dryly, watching him from the sofa without helping, content to just watch him hurry around. “Bye!”

 

“Bye!”

 

Five minutes later he's home, staring up at the huge house. _Might be nice to have a person to share it with,_ notes part of his brain. “Shut up,” he tells it, and opens the front door. “Hello?”

 

“Ah, Charles,” Erik says, appearing in the doorway to the living room with the clowder milling around his feet. They all greet Charles enthusiastically, although they bound back to Erik after the initial excitement. “Hello. How was the meeting?”

 

“Um,” Charles says eloquently, then kicks his brain into gear. _Don't drool at the turtleneck. It's just a turtleneck. Turtlenecks aren't sexy. Not even that one._ “It wasn't really an official meeting, at all. I needed to see Moira.”

 

“What about?” Erik asks.

 

“Why are you still here?” Charles asks instead.

 

“I like the house. And the company isn't too bad,” Erik replies, mouth twitching into an almost-smile. Charles wishes it would go the extra mile and become a proper one.

 

“What a compliment,” Charles jokes, ignoring how his heart is pounding in his chest. He tries to subtly wipe his sweating hands on his trousers.

 

“Yes, actually. They're not my strongest suit, but I like to give them when I feel they're deserved,” Erik says casually, and intercepts Charles as he goes to shuffle past him on the way to the kitchen.

 

Charles forcefully tells his blush to piss off.

 

“Do you want some help carrying that?” Erik asks. “Chinese?”

 

“Moira always orders too much,” Charles explains, giving Erik one of the three bags. “Thanks.”

 

“My pleasure,” Erik says, inclining his head. He has a really great jawline. _Shut up._

 

They carry the bags together into the kitchen and put them on the counter, and Charles is halfway through turning around when Erik blocks his way, placing his hands on the counter to either side of Charles.

 

“There's a possibility I've read this wrong,” Erik says. “So I'm going to make sure. Is it alright if I kiss you?” He sounds almost formal, like when he's made an accounting error and is checking with a superior that everything's okay, and Charles nearly laughs at the matter-of-factness before he realises how that might be interpreted.

 

“Alright, I suppose,” he says, and then Erik leans down and kisses him. It's not much more than lips against lips, and his are chapped from the dehydrating effects of the alcohol and he probably tastes like some god-awful combination of Chinese food and vodka but Erik doesn't seem to mind, moving his hands from the counter to the base and middle of Charles' spine. He pulls back after a few moments, but leaves his hands where they are.

 

“When you said a meeting,” Erik says, smooth voice slightly deeper than usual, “Did you mean 'I'm running off to my best friend to drink vodka and eat takeaway?”

 

“Well, I'd only planned on the vodka,” Charles says, and Erik smiles this little smile that's some kind of hybrid of the shark-smile and the sleepy-smile and makes Charles a little weak at the knees, which is _embarrassing._

 

“At least we don't have to cook. Plenty of time for other things,” Erik points out reasonably, tracing circles on Charles' back with his fingertips. It's really bloody relaxing. Charles runs a hand over Erik's chest – wow, the fabric of this turtleneck is so soft – and shrugs.

 

“Isn't it nice when things work out,” he says, and leans up to kiss Erik again.

 


End file.
